The Worst Kind of Dreaming
by NumbuhZero
Summary: “Watching you, I’d sell my soul to put a bullet between your eyes and end it.” Sam dreams of his brother's approaching trip to hell.


_The pain was a constant. An all consuming, point-me-in-the-right-direction-so-I-can-gnaw-off-whatever's-hurting kind of pain. He would have screamed if it had been an option, but the furious working to unhinge his jaw only pulled at the thick wire laced through his lips. The hollow crevices that once held hazel eyes now wept thick rivulets of blood; a macabre parody of tears. His fingers and toes were worn to stubs, and hungry flames tore at his skin. There were red pokers, and dull saws. Boiling oils and wooden stakes. They bled him dry and ripped him apart._

_And they never let him rest. Never let him sleep._

_But they did let him dream._

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"How long has this been going on, Sammy?" Dean reached out and jerked away the plate of grilled chicken that his brother had been crushing into paste, demanding his attention. His voice echoed slightly in the almost-empty roadside diner, drawing the interest of a family a few tables over. Dean dropped his voice to a heated stage whisper. "How long?"

Sam heaved a sigh and wearily leaned his head against the back of the cheap plastic booth. "A couple a' weeks." He tossed his now useless fork onto the table and rubbed at his face.

Dean leaned back and tapped a twitching hand against his thigh, muscles tense and yearning to punch something. Something like his lying little brother, who had been assuring him for the last twelve days that he was 'Perfectly fine. Stop asking.'. Which, really, should have been his first clue, because Sam only ever looked that bad and denied that venomously when what was bugging him was really fucking bad. "And it never occurred to you to tell me about it?" And this was pretty fucking bad. Even by Winchester standards.

"It never came up." Sam peeked at Dean from behind his hands before dropping them into his lap with a huff. He wasn't buying it. "I wouldn't have even said anything if I didn't think…"

"Think what? Think you'd get me to back out? Scare me into letting you die? Because Sammy, that isn't going to happen." Piercing glare meets bloodshot eyes. "Ever."

Sam's weary expression melted into one of barely contained grief. "You didn't see it, Dean. You didn't see the blood." His hands reached out, grasping at air, trying to express the things he'd seen during the last two weeks. When that didn't work they twisted into his hair and pulled. "You kept bleeding. They would slice you open like a slaughtered pig, and pull out your insides and stomp on them. They'd slit your throat and boil your eyes, and Jesus Dean. Jesus. You couldn't even scream because- fuck, you don't know Dean." A fist pounded on the table, but it was weak, and the forgotten dishes barely even jumped. "Watching you, I'd sell _my _soul to put a bullet between your eyes and end it."

Dean swallowed, and tried not to let the fear show on his face. "How do you even know what you saw," He cleared his throat. "is even real? It could just be a normal nightmare. People have them."

"Not like this."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Dean waited, letting the silence stew around them while his mind scrambled for a way to salvage the situation.

"I don't know what to do." Sam's words were so soft Dean wasn't even sure he had spoken until he repeated himself a moment later; voice heavy and anguished. "I don't know how to fix this."

Dean glanced around the small diner, noticed the crowd they were drawing, and stood hastily. "C'mon, you're tired, man." One hand gripped his brothers bicep and steered him out of the booth, the other dug into his pocket and tossed a few bills on the table. "Let's get you to bed, huh?" The motel was just across the street and they hadn't bothered to take the Impala.

The pair stumbled out of the building, Sam leaning against the older man, mumbling words like 'Can't' and 'Dean'. His brother just took the weight and murmured his own soft words. Quiet, comforting assurances, mixed in with the occasional oath. And after a few attempts at getting the door open he slowly guided the now sobbing Sam unto the bed farthest from the door.

"I'm not sorry." Sam clutched at his shirt and Dean wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rocking slightly. "I wish there had been another way. God, I really wish there had been. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat." He squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his little brothers curled up frame against him. After all these years, they still fit together. "I'd do anything for you… bitch."

Sam let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Jerk." His voice was slurred with barely contained exhaustion. "Anything?"

"Yeah." No hesitation.

Sam's breathing slowed, and he let his eyes slide shut. "I'm gunna 'et you outta this." He whispered, minutes after Dean was sure he'd fallen asleep.

Dean grinned and carefully disentwined himself from his brother. "If anyone can do it, you can." Once we was sure Sam wasn't going to roll off the bed he grabbed his duffle and slipped into the bathroom for a quick shower. And to desperately try and distract himself from the images that played behind his lids every time he blinked.

Because he never imagined it was his own innards being ground into the dust.

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_And it was the dreams that were the worst._


End file.
